


Tap

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still in the North, Esca’s thirsty and Marcus needs to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tap

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't historically accurate.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s much easier on the way back, even with his leg in agony half the time and only one horse to show for it. The Eagle often strapped to his back, as heavy as it is, is a pleasant burden, a constant push to go forward, more so for its mere existence than the desire to see it home. What it means to Rome is one thing, what it means to Marcus and his father is everything. And it’s easier to carry now that the task is done, their seal followers are gone and they can move at their own pace. When they stop for a short meal and to let the horse rest, it isn’t with the same stress to take as little time as possible. 

They’re still wary of rogue warriors, of course, but as they settle into a nook between trees, Marcus takes all the time he needs to find a comfortable way to sit that doesn’t leave his wound screaming at him. They tie their horse around the trunk of another tree close by, and it whines and stomps, wanting water, though Esca tells him it’s another day before they’ll come to the next stream. This is the longest they’ve gone on their journey without water, but they should have a little left in their stores, and Marcus’ mouth has grown used to being dry like his back’s grown used to not having a bed. It’s a rough country, but it was worth every step.

They break out the meat of their last kill, and Esca, sprawled out in the green moss below, mutters, “I’m thirsty.” The words are delivered in Latin, so Marcus knows they were meant for his ears. He nods his head. But neither of them seems willing to break into their stores, so they sit where they are, picking out scraps of rabbit that would be better cooked. They’ll bother with a fire when they’re really ready to camp for the night. It’s near dusk, but there should still be time to move. 

Marcus considers saying this is the longest they’ve gone without rain, but instead all the talk of water makes him realize: “I need to piss.” He pushes unsteadily to his feet, intending to leave and hide behind a tree—though they’ve seen more of one another on this journey than they ever did while Esca was Marcus’ slave at his Uncle’s home, Marcus still tries to keep some semblance of privacy between them. As beautiful as Esca is, as strong and alluring and charming in his own way, Marcus never once used him for the pleasures that haunt Marcus’ dreams. He has no intention of taking anyone against their will, and Esca’s made it clear enough how he feels about Romans, so Marcus intends to take his Roman body out of sight when he exposes it. 

But as he passes Esca’s still-sitting frame, Esca’s hand darts up and clutches at Marcus’ belt, stopping him in his tracks. Marcus looks down, and Esca, palm flat against Marcus’ stomach, pushes him back two steps, tugs him by the belt closer, makes him come stand between Esca’s spread legs. Then Esca withdraws them, moving to kneel, his honey hair awash with the pale glow through the trees and his long lashes half lowered. In just those few seconds, Marcus’ breath has become ragged, pulse spiking, like it does whenever Esca touches him and looks at him, because Esca is more than Marcus could’ve ever wanted. 

Esca’s lifting the edges of Marcus’ tunic, pushing the hem back, pulling at the lace of his braccae, and then Esca murmurs, low and husky, “I’m going to show you a Briton trick for two bonded men out in the wilderness.” _Bonded._ Marcus can’t ask what that means, because he’s become paralyzed with shock and want. Esca tugs down the front of Marcus’ braccae, reaching inside, long fingers closing around Marcus’ cock—and it’s all Marcus can do to breathe. 

Esca pulls out his cock. Exposed to the cool air, it should be small and limp, but it’s not—it’s already partially engorged, long and pulsing in Esca’s hand, always aroused when near Esca’s beauty. Esca barely seems to notice. He leans forward towards it, fingers running down the length to pull at Marcus’ foreskin, plush lips falling open, and Esca presses them against the pink head of Marcus’ cock. Esca is _kissing his cock._ And then Esca applies a little bit of suction, suckles on the end, and Marcus makes an incoherent whining noise, face scrunching up in rapture; he’s half terrified he’ll lose control and piss in Esca’s mouth and half ecstatic that their relationship’s progressed to this. Esca suckles on him for a short moment, then pulls back. 

Looking up through dilated eyes, Esca commands, “Piss, Marcus. It isn’t wise to waste anything in the north.” There’s a coy little grin to his face—he probably enjoys making Marcus flush red and stumble. Licking the full circle of his wet lips, Esca goes back to Marcus’ cock, but this time opens wider, pushes down, engulfs the whole head, tight and wet and hot. Marcus makes a noise halfway between a cry and a whimper; he can’t believe this is happening. 

He wants to grab Esca’s hair and pull Esca closer, but he doesn’t dare, so his hands are useless at his sides, his whole body lax and under Esca’s command. Esca reaches for his base, gives his cock a little squeeze, and Marcus grunts, losing that fraction of control. A few drops trickle out and into Esca’s warm mouth. Esca moans around him and swallows, and Marcus is dizzy and in heaven; this can’t be happening. Esca sucks at him again, and Marcus’ cock gives in while it’s still soft enough to manage; he pours himself right down Esca’s throat. He can feel himself heaving on Esca’s tongue. Esca squeezes him like milking it out, and Marcus happily plays cow for Esca, almost shuts his eyes and then forces them back open: he stares at Esca’s beautiful face while he pisses right into Esca’s sinful mouth. 

He wishes he’d had more to drink. If they’d had it, of course, they wouldn’t be here, but he wants this to last as long as it can. He wants to empty his entire bladder into Esca’s stomach. As the stream increases, a thin trail escapes down the corner of Esca’s chin, but Esca keeps swallowing and drinking, until there’s nothing left, and Marcus is just trickling little drops onto Esca’s tongue, Esca squeezing him to make sure that’s all. He’s growing harder by the second, and if Esca doesn’t stop soon, Marcus shamefully knows it’s a different liquid he’ll be pouring into his beloved ex-slave. 

When there’s nothing left, Esca still sucks greedily, until he seems satisfied that Marcus has given all he can. Then Esca’s mouth is falling away, and Marcus is whimpering like a child. Esca licks his lips after and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, Marcus staring at everything. As usual, he’s become transfixed, and all he can do is gape at Esca. It takes him several incoherent seconds to even find the wherewithal to tuck himself back into his pants. 

Esca mutters, “Some like to catch it in cups, but then you have the smell to deal with.” He looks daringly up at Marcus, like defying Marcus to disagree. 

Marcus finds himself slinking down, sitting in the moss with a grunt, his knees unable to support him. Esca goes back to eating like it’s nothing, and Marcus is left to sit there and try to figure out what in the world just happened to him. 

And mostly, he wonders if he’s fallen far enough from Rome to disgrace himself in the same manner and take his own drink when he’s thirsty.


End file.
